Happily Ever After
by KnightedRogue
Summary: A formal event brings disasterous consequences to the Han-Leia relationship. HL, post-ROTJ three-shot. COMPLETE.
1. Han

**Happily Ever After**

**KnightedRogue**

Warning: Character death within.

* * *

The minute the _Millennium Falcon_ docked, General Han Solo was out the main hatch and hurrying across the hanger. Throwing a brief glance at the cockpit, where Chewbacca was completing the shutdown sequence and simultaneously waving his partner off, Han turned and began a full hilt sprint down towards the turbolift bank of the Navy spaceport and down twenty levels to the skybridge connecting the docks with the Imperial Palace. _I'm outta shape._ Breathing heavily and sweating in quantities beyond what he thought physically possible, he threw himself past the glass doors of the upper division quarters and waved his ID frantically towards the security droid guarding the inside. _Yeah. Way outta shape. _The secondary doors opened with some mild curses and impatient sighs and Han began a slightly slower jog towards the furthest residence on the level, reaching the door and throwing a palm towards the datapad on the right of the door. As the door swished open, Solo jumped into the room, threw his blaster and holster on the floor, and began removing his uniform jacket and unbuttoning the white shirt underneath as he ran from the entrance towards the bedroom.

"I'm here, I'm here, I'm hurrying," he breathed as he crossed the room and threw the jacket and shirt into a pile at the foot of the bed. "I'll make it, I swear." He tossed the assurance over his shoulder as he grabbed the much-despised dress uniform and began the long, tedious process of buttoning, pinning, and polishing. "Hey, Your Worship," Han yelled as he turned around, "are you planning on welcoming me back or – "

He stopped.

_Ah, now _that's _a sight for sore eyes._

Han had known that his reunion with Leia Organa would be somewhat tarnished by a harried air and formal attire, but he found that, in her case, that formal attire was not a hindrance at all. The Princess was dressed and waiting for him just outside of his closet. Swathed in a gown of purest white that reached to the ground and then dragged gracefully behind her, Leia was adorned with the look of regality and perfection. The dress had a gauzy drape over it, covering, but somehow also emphasizing, the length of her arms, anda conservative neckline. Her hair was swept up and embedded with small diadems as loose ringlets escaped a large gathering at the back of her head.

"Sure. As soon as you decide to stop calling me stupid nicknames," she smiled brilliantly at him, "nerfherder."

The teasing jibe was barely out of her mouth before Han had crossed the distance between them and pressed his lips to hers, sighing inwardly as he felt her slim arms circle around his neck and a hand hold the back of his head. _Three weeks? Has it really been that long? _He suddenly became very aware how much he had missed her, how much he hated leaving. This last circuit had been the longest yet, and he'd hated every second of it, hoping everything would be the same upon his return. He'd worried about Luke. About the Republic. About Coruscant.

But most of all, he'd worried about Leia.

He smiled against her mouth as he imagined her response to such a thought. Leia was certainly not the type to need his protection; if she had been, he probably wouldn't have fallen in love with her in the first place. But it was that relentless drive, that ambition to succeed in her endeavors that made him extremely overprotective of her. She was outspoken, independent and volatile: could take down a physical assailant and smooth over aggressive negotiations without either opponent figuring out what was happening.

Most men would be intimidated, not overprotective.

Han Solo was not most men.

He knew she didn't take care of herself when he was away, that she tended to skip meals, work late, and play insomniac into early the next morning. Do things for which she knew he would berate her were he anywhere near the system. After nearly one year together, Han was sure that he understood his princess, that he had her pegged almost as well as she got him.

Most of the time.

Stepping back from him, Leia ended the kiss and glared at him. "That's not going to work."

He was genuinely confused. "What did I do?"

"With a kiss like that, it's not a matter of what you did. It's what you want to do. And what you want to do is certainly not what we have the time for." She smiled to show him that she wasn't truly angry. "Put on your boots, Solo. The sooner we get you to the reception, the sooner I don't have to worry about you."

"You aren't going to worry about _me_ at a formal diplomatic thing?"

She smirked. "You can't seduce me over dinner."

"Wanna bet?"

Leia laughed and wrapped her arms around him again. "I guess I should have expected that."

He jumped back out of her embrace and raised an eyebrow. "Nuh-uh. Your princess charms won't work on me, Sweetheart." He bent to retrieve his boots, straightened, and looked back at her. "You're just gonna have to wait." He mock-sighed, almost laughing at Leia's exasperated expression. "Your fault. Duty over me, always seems like. Well, see, that's what you get – "

He walked past her and sat on the bed, waged a small war with the stiff boots as Leia double-checked her appearance in the refresher and returned to stand in front of him and tousle his hair.

"You need a haircut."

He managed his right foot, although he thought he might have lost all circulation to the offended appendage. "Don't need a haircut." He looked up to her face and winked. "Scoundrel."

She played with his bangs as he switched his attention to the left boot. "How could I possibly forget?"

"I don't know, Sweetheart. Three weeks is an awful long time." He shoved his foot into the boot, grimaced as it finally made it in.

"Too long."

Han looked up as Leia dropped her hand away from his head. He sighed as he put his hands around her waist and stood up. "I missed you."

She nodded.

"I love you."

She nodded again.

Han shook his head and tried his last card. "I'm going to behave myself at dinner?"

She smiled. "No pilot stories. Nothing that could possibly warrant a court-marshal." She laughed quietly. "And no fighting with Madine."

"That was a one-time thing. And the bastard deserved it."

"Regardless, behave yourself, Han."

He smirked. "Of course, Your Highnessness. As always."

Leia seemed less than assured as they left their quarters and traveled to dinner.

* * *

Han had to admit the Great Hall was an amazing sight as Leia and he stepped through the large doors and into the cavernous room. The floor was stretched out in detailed, intricate tile and the walls were painted with a soft ethereal glow that created the almost impossible aura of intimacy in the single largest room in the Imperial Palace. Glass and glitterfab lined the chandeliers high above their heads, interrupting the light and manifesting it in curious designs throughout the hall, onto the small contingent of dancers below.

Allowing his eyes to roam over the scene as Leia squeezed his bicep and left to talk with Carlist Rieekan, Han took in the enormity of the hall and felt a brief spasm of fear jolt through him as he surveyed the wide, and simultaneously vulnerable, center floor. Then he snapped from his instinctual panic and concentrated on the actual guests to calm himself. _Idiot, this is a high-up event. No one is here who shouldn't be._

Following that train of thought. Han glanced around to the others in attendance. Mon Mothma, he could spot her easily in the crowd. Admiral Ackbar was also fairly easy to see, his head protruding a bit further into the air than the humans who surrounded him. He switched views, looked at who was dancing at the moment. Most were dignitaries he didn't know personally, only through Leia's briefings on whom she despised or admired on the High Council and Senate. Borsk Fey'lya was congregating with an Ithorian in the corner, and Han had a brief glimpse of blue military dress uniform before General Madine walked past the two and sidled up to a Kuati politician opposite the dining hall.

Han sighed. _I really hate this crap. _

Knowing that Leia was expecting him to be on his best behavior, Han decided the best place for him would be next to her. _She'll at least clue me in if I start acting stupid._ Spotting her as she moved her hands in animated description while speaking with Rieekan, Han walked towards them and accidentally brushed shoulders with a Navy officer he'd seen at the base earlier. Nodding an acknowledgement, he continued on his course towards Leia.

Before he'd even reached her side, Rieekan had seen him and nodded kindly. "Solo."

"General."

He smiled. "You clean up pretty well. How'd you manage that, Leia?"

She laughed and looked at Han. "Actually, I've barely seen him. We had to leave pretty quickly after he docked."

"You got stuck going to one of these things right after landing? Tough luck, Solo."

"Yeah, well, I think it's her form of punishment. I leave and when I come back, I gotta go to this."

"That's what happens when you pair up with an Organa."

"That and a real bruised ego."

Leia chimed in. "I didn't think that was possible for you, Solo."

"Hmm, General, did you hear something? I think I mighta – " He made a show of looking down towards her small stature. "Oh, wait. Yeah, I think that was Leia, Rieekan."

Rieekan laughed. "Solo, you're digging your own grave, here."

"I think if I pretend that's she's not here, she won't make me come to more of these." He smiled lopsidedly. "That's my plan."

"Your torture has just been extended indefinitely." She looked up as a small, delicate chime signaled them to dinner. "Come on, boys. You can just as well harass me at the dinner table."

* * *

"You never cease to amaze me, nerfherder."

Han heard the comment at his right shoulder, where Leia's head rested. It was quiet, not quite a whisper, but close. He grinned.

"What did I do now?"

She lifted her head and smiled at him, her diadems catching the light of the chandelier and sparkling, nearly blinding him with its brightness. "This," she indicated the ballroom floor with a sweep of her right hand. "Dancing?" She chuckled. "I would have never thought such a thing was possible."

"I'm just full of surprises, sweetheart."

He could feel her long skirts as they lapped against his legs, her warm breath on his skin as she settled down, crooking her head against his neck.

"You don't have to tell _me _that, Solo." Her shoulders shook as she laughed quietly. "You've got a billionsecrets that I'd liketo know."

He furrowed his brow. "Huh? Like what?"

"Mmm, like the scar."

He shook his head. "Nuh-uh."

"The Academy?"

"You know about that already."

She shook her head slightly. "Not all of it. Not about Chewie."

"Why don't you get Chewie to tell you?"

She laughed again. "I can't drag it out of him as well as I can you."

"It's all over the fleet. You could ask anyone." He turned them around, caught a glance at the Navy officer he'd bumped into earlier. "Like him. He'd tell it to you, I bet."

Seeming to understand he was randomly referring to someone now out of her line of sight, Leia conceded the point. "Okay, what about Bria?"

He shook his head. "Nah. Bria's nothing to tell."

She looked up. "'Nothing to tell'?"

"Yep."

"C'mon, Solo, spill."

"Mm-hm," he rumbled as he buried his nose into her hair, "old girlfriend, lover, whatever."

"Did you love her?"

Her tone of voice told him that she was mildlyjealous, but not enough to get defensive. "Um. I dunno." He closed his eyes. "Yeah, I guess so – "

Han heard the whine of blaster fire the second before he heard a distant scream. And he vaguely saw the Navy officer he'd bumped into earlier sporting the smoking, offending blaster. And then he felt himself fall backwards, unable to stay up any longer, until he hit the ground with a resounding _crack_ and then was still.

* * *

So-o-o-o?

KR


	2. Leia

**Part II:**

**Warning: **Canon character death detailed within.

* * *

Lying flat on his back, Han was unsure at first what had happened. The sounds, the scream, the fall –

And then it hit him.

"Leia?"

He didn't move. She was lying on his chest, head cocked to the side, hands sprawled out to either side of them. He reached his hands up, one cupped the back of her head, the other at the small of her back, and slowly, agonizingly, rolled them over, using his knee as a pivot and catching most of the weight on the other as he laid her down on her back.

"Leia?" His voice sounded weak, stringy, unused, hoarse. He could hear the trembling but was completely unaware of how quiet it actually was. It would break, he knew, if he tried to use it much louder –

The woman he held in his arms, laid on the floor, with one of his hands at the back of her head, the other on her back, was still. Unconsciously still. _No, not still. She's moving, she's moving, she has to move, she needs to move, she can't__ – _

The trembling in his voice carried into his hands, a violent shaking that he could feel reciprocated in every part of his body. A cold wash of tingling swept through his chest, a shaking there too, a frightening, sickly trembling mixed with cold and a fear so deep –

He slowly pulled a shaking hand out from under her back, felt it come away warmer than the rest. He knew, _knew_ what it was, why it was warm, why he caught a glimpse of red shine and horror, why a burnt smell permeated the air, bit his nostrils, crawled down his throat, where the trembling seemed to originate.

_Leia._

_Not Leia, not her, not now, not ever, please – _

_Please. _

The shaking became overpowering as he slid his bloodied hand – _her blood, blood so red, so real, so warm__ – _over her stomach, her chest, to her chin, where he brushed his thumb to her cheek and brow, where he watched the smooth, pure, snowy skin turn red and bright at his bloodied touch. Where he looked for the eyes, her eyes, the eyes he knew, _knew_ would open – _open!__ –_ the brown that was hid from him behind the expanses of eyelids, the ceased convulsing of her long eyelashes.

He tore his gaze away from her face and let his hand, the blood one, the one that shone, the one that was drying, was no longer so warm, brush down to her neck – _clean, pure, innocent__ - _draw the streak of semi-warmth down her chest to her stomach, where red had pooled – _no, this isn't real, this isn't hers, it's mine, it's my, my, gods, my__ – _staining the white of her gown in a ruinous mess of fabric and her blood –

Her blood was everywhere.

_Leia__ – _His eyes widened, he felt even his eyes shaking as he knelt, put his face onto her neck, his shaking uncontrollable, unfathomable, unknowing. The biting – _reality?__ – _cold swept through his stomach, hardened his sides, made it difficult to breathe._Leia, open your eyes, talk to me, sweetheart. Breathe, for me, please, Leia, please – _

_Leia._

He felt his tears erupt, felt the wetness creep down his check, as he stubbornly brought the red hand to his face, threw the tears away – _my Leia, my princess, please _– felt the cold, the seeping cold of his tears bellow out from the cold storm within to swarm his vision in wetness, in tears. He lifted his head from her neck, felt a tear – _so cold, trembling, shaking, convulsing quickly, too quickly__ – _drop down off the river on his face to the memorized face with the blood marks, the brushed care of his fingertips, roll down, meet her lips, parted slightly – _please! _– and sit there.

Rest.

Stop.

He chocked down a sob, tore his gaze away from the white – _but tarnished red, blood, her blood, her warmth__ – _lying down in front of him, looked, searched, frantically, found Rieekan, his eyes wide, his lips shaking, his hands trembling as they pressed to his chest, as he fell to his knees and closed his eyes.

Han took his hand, the red one, behind her head to meet the other one, brushed his thumbs across her eyes. _Please, Leia, please. Open your eyes. Look at me. Don't leave me, don't go, I can't – I don't know – you're here, I'm here, please, please, don't – _

_Sweetheart, please__ –_

And Han Solo pressed his forehead against the princess's – _my princess__ –_ closed his eyes, fought for breath, fought for her life, concentrated so hard on her, and her eyes, and her neck, that he didn't feel the medic's hand on his shoulder. He whispered to her, trembling, low, shaking with a cold spreading through his body, as well as hers, told her he would never leave, that she had to stay, that he needed her, that she was his everything.

Everything.

That he'd go insane, he was gone without her, he couldn't wake up without her, couldn't breathe without her. That he loved her, over and over again, that he wouldn't let her leave, that he'd kill for her, that he'd take her place in a heartbeat, as long as it was hers, that she'd come for him.

Save him. Save his life.

Save his everything.

And that unfelt hand at his shoulder pushed harder at Solo, forced him away. Out of reach, out of the princess's mind. Away from her waning life, her nonexistent breath, her blood, seeped in a pool on the floor, her wrapped body of white broken and dead, cold, motionless, unfeeling.

_Please, Leia, please. For me, please, plea__ – _

* * *

Han Solo stood at his window as Coruscant's sun began its slow ascent in the sky. He stood at a casual parade-rest, unconsciously, of course, hands loose at his sides and head straight ahead, staring into the shifting sunrise. He seemed mesmerized or comatose, whichever adjective his Wookiee audience chose to give, by the city in its morning stages, at the barely-concealed energy of the people as they arose and readied for the day.

Solo had not slept and he therefore did not need to arise and get ready. He was dressed in his formal uniform, dress jacket lost, forgotten, trousers rumpled and worn, white shirt splattered with the dried, encrusted blood of the last Princess of Alderaan.

It was inevitable that his copilot would find him here. Chewie knew, before he had entered the apartment, what his captain would be doing, where he would be standing, perhaps what he would be thinking. It was of no consolation to the Wookiee as he crossed the room silently and stared at the panorama with his best friend, intent on comforting Solo but utterly unable to make the first move. It wasn't his to give. He _thought_ he knew how Solo would react to his presence, but was not entirely sure. After all their years together as crew and compatriots, nothing had ever occurred that rivaled the events of the previous night.

So Chewbacca stood at the right shoulder of his captain and waited.

"I just stood there."

The comment was softly spoken, nearly a whisper, but completely tortured. The exhalation of breath, the stillness, alerted Chewie immediately to what Solo was referring.

"I did nothing." Solo's frame still did not move. "I saw him, Chewie. I saw him and did nothing."

Han's was, Chewbacca was certain, a guilt that Solo had heaped onto himself; the captain was protective of nearly anyone to whom he attached his loyalty. It was a short list, Chewie knew, those that Solo let in, let see who he really was. Before the Rebellion, it had primarily been himself that had known the true Solo, but as the years spread so did the list to include two more. One name equaled his own status on Han's protection list, Chewie knew. Luke was a close friend, almost a brother in certain ways.

But the other –

Han's feelings for her had always been obvious to Chewie. Possibly before Han knew himself. It had been clear on Yavin, Ord Mantell, Hoth. His over-protectiveness towards her had manifested itself in every aspect of his dealings with her. Whether it was a routine shipping route or a dangerous and reckless intel mission, Han had watched her back more than his own in each situation. It had been imperative that he protect her, guard her, against those terrors Chewie knew she could handle.

Chewbacca's mind sobered at the thought of the princess. He adored her with the same intensity that he cared for Han; it was difficult not to, they were alike in so many ways. Both were free-spirited, courageous, independent. Capable beyond belief.

Protective.

His mind switched back to his friend who had held his tongue for the past few moments. Solo's eyes were wide open, no hint of moisture there at all, and his lips had formed a thin line. Occasionally, he'd blink, quick rests for his haunted visage, but the green would always reappear, still notably absent from tears.

Chewie wuffed softly, a soft murmur that reverberated in the empty room swathed in white and ivory. It had been her greatest achievement, he knew. He'd helped her with the curtains himself, helped her with shelves and mantles that were too tall for her very short stature. She'd been ecstatic, given the opportunity to begin a permanent residence, a home for the lost princess that had sacrificed everything for her ideals.

With one hand resting on the curtains she'd been so proud of, Han lowered his forehead to the transparsteel. "I'm gonna bury her, Chewie."

Chewie's eyes misted in sympathy for his captain and in recollection for the woman he'd very early on considered a vital member of his honor family. He extended a paw to pat Solo's shoulder and stayed as he continued staring out of the window at the life and vitality of the never-ending city landscape, the tears finally appearing on the sides of his face and forging a wet trail down his cheeks.

* * *

It wasn't enough that it had happened: they had to record the aftermath.

The holojournalists had apparently found a way to circumnavigate the private property laws. He'd first seen them later the morning after, swooping in, diving for the meat of torture and angst in a way that seemed unnatural or exceptionally cruel. They covered the outside of her windows, the entry to the consulate, the _Falcon_. It was ridiculously ironic that he'd receive this much attention at a time when he could seriously care less.

For a brief spell, he'd considered hiding out in the _Falcon_, avoiding the press altogether, but the moment he thought of it, he'd balked. He couldn't leave. This apartment was all he had of hers. It was a plethora of Leia-ism, of her presence and personality as naturally ingrained into her residence as her mind. She surrounded him here, alternatively punishing and consoling him as he lingered.

This morning he'd gone into her closet, looking for a spare holster he was sure she'd stashed away. As he entered it, he was overwhelmed by _her_, her clothes, her shoes, the things of his that she'd kept. And he'd started at one end of the closet, touching, remembering, holding. The dress she'd worn at the Bakuran dinner, the white caftan shift she'd worn the night of the Endor victory, his shirt that she'd taken to wearing around the apartment the few times they could lounge around and do nothing.

It was _her_

He'd spent two hours in the closet, looking at her things, remembering, knowing, understanding. That was what had surprised him: he knew _everything._ He'd seen it all, the dresses and the lingerie, the expensive scarves and the plain white robe he knew was her favorite. He could picture her in each one, as easily as if she were standing there in front of him, glibly reprimanding him for detaining her as she rushed to ready herself.

It was moments like this that scared him the most, when he was possessed to do things that seemed absurd. And he found himself doing them more often, as he hid in her apartment that was not really her apartment anymore. He followed his mind as it relived the memories, both good and bad, timeless and forgettable. He allowed himself to become stupidly obsessed with a past that had nothing to do with him _now_, a future he'd historically imagined that he couldn't have anymore.

This was why he fantasy images assaulted him at night, leaving him without mental reprieve. It was a strangled, tangled web of "what-if" holograms – Leia in green, red, gold, silver dresses. Bridal white. A proposed proposal, one he'd secretly pondered before but never felt the courage to actually speak out loud. The children he'd never really wanted but knew he would with Leia, tangible evidence of their existence, their relationship. Their lives. A Leia no longer wearing white on her dresses, but rather in her aging hair, the strands as endearing as the wrinkles on her face. The laugh ones, worry ones, ones he was sure were a direct result of a lifetime spent with him.

He just didn't think that lifetime would end so quickly.

As it was, he would be taking an unmarried, childless, stupidly young Leia, a Leia of so many possibilities now as dead as she herself, to the grave. He would sit through a service that highlighted her life accomplishments, never touching the warm, gentle skin or gazing into the pools of brown liquidity that electrified him, or smelling the long multitude of brown cinnamon strands that moved as if it weren't attached to her head. The service would end, they would cry, they would congregate, but they would leave with a dented sense of justice and nothing more. No overarching heartache, no burning emptiness trailing down their spines and dropping suddenly into their stomachs.

No true regret.

No hollow ring that echoed constantly in their ears, her last words, his last to her, so innocuous, so idiotic, so ordinary and unexceptional. So wrong.

Wrong. A phenomenal manner of summing this emotion up. It was uncomfortable, unenlightened, uninspiring to think that she died that way. Speaking mundane history with him – his! Not hers! – it was sickening to think of the last moments of her life. It was pointless. Didn't sit well.

Wrong.

It was just wrong. Everything about this situation was uncomfortable and lame without him having a clear idea of what would have been _right._ Right was the way he felt before they left the apartment – i_this_/iapartment, how different it feels now! – to go to the dinner. Right was an ordinary conversation with Rieekan, joking about her height. Right was the pitiful last moments of her life, as she laughed and held him close, breathing her perfume, feeling her hair and her skin as they brushed against him.

Right was merely to have her with him.

That was why this whole experience was uncertain, vague, shifting. Uncomfortable. Unsavory. Murky.

Wrong.

Without her, everything seemed wrong.

* * *

Some of you who've read "Peace with the Dead" may think I have a sadistic desirefor killing Leia off in my fics, but, truly, she's only been dead in one of my viggies, and Leia lived through until the end of PwtD. This is the first time I've actually killed her. (It was incredibly difficult for me to do, lol.)

KR


	3. Happily Ever Afters

**Happily Ever After, Part III**

Once upon a time, there had lived a princess. The princess was beautiful and intelligent, strategically strong and pronouncedly proud. But she was cursed from birth with one terrible secret, a secret so humiliating, so terrifying and utterly abominable that she never told anyone other than one man. It was a debilitating and dangerous secret, that one man knew, one that could frighten away her allies and make her vulnerable to her enemies' attacks. No one could know the secret, with the outstanding exception of the one man, and he was given the responsibility of guarding her secret to the grave.

And as Han Solo watched the funeral service for Leia Organa, he wanted to scream the secret out loud, to force everyone in the room to understand what she had so carefully hid from them, what had made her make them believe she was invincible, what he finally _could _scream because they _had_ kept it to her grave.

She was _human._

It was a concept most of these people did not understand when it came to her. He had watched speaker after speaker pour over notes of anecdotes as the humanitarian tear fell and the sympathetic voice cracked, shattering the somberness of the service with pointless posthumous defamations of her character. Not that they understood their actions; they performed the service that was traditional, fitting. The kind that is given to _every_ cold, lifeless corpse they drag through the doors. They dressed it up with words like "special," "gentle," "good," and called it a funeral, a slapped job that no one wishes to undertake and everyone wishes to finish.

But it was revoltingly ill-conceived for her.

The speakers used words like "special" when discussing her compassion for each soldier of the Rebellion, and yet they failed to include such necessary information as the tears she shed privately because she felt she had been "special" enough to destroy her own homeworld with her commitment to her people. They christened her "gentle" in her soft manner, her royal sweetness, but forgot that even in the most frenzied of moments, in the most bloody of circumstances and dire of straits, she could be insured to carry her blaster, load it with a carbine and her own pacificity, and shoot the enemy in the head upon command. They discussed her as the redeeming goodness of the Rebellion, the light of morality that would forever guide them in their pursuit of freedom and equality. But did they truly know the extent of her goodness? That she gave and gave and gave and gave until she had nothing left to give to them, and then contributed a little more besides? That she was the most amazingly moral person anyone there had ever met?

That you could _see _the goodness in her eyes as they took in the worst and accepted it without hesitation or qualm?

"Special," and "gentle," and "good" sometimes covered her person, her life, but never always. _Human _was the word they were looking for. The faulty character trait that they wished to overlook in such a wonderful martyr as her. Humanity meant she hadn't been perfectly content to live her life in a state of voluntary imprisonment within the Senate or Mon Calamari mess halls. Humanity meant emotion, sin, awkwardness, and lies. Humanity meant imperfection.

Palpatine help them if their martyrs have a dark spot on their records.

Leia Organa's dark spot, or at least the dark spot that knew all the rest of her minor dark spots, was seated in the back, away from the speakers and the communal falsity. He fiddled with his DL-44 as he slouched in a temporary chair with his unkempt hair in his face and a set of haunted green eyes that never concentrated on any one figure for too long. The figures baited him, attempted to draw his gaze toward theirs so they could, for the first time, say they were sorry, they knew how he felt, that he had their support.

It was all Han could do to force the scream on his lips to a restless tapping of his right foot.

It unnerved him endlessly that Leia would be subject to such an awful funeral. He wasn't exactly sure what kind of funerals princesses had: he had never before realized that princesses died, that princesses died because of stupid mistakes, that princesses died because of stupid mistakes caused by the men whom they said they love and who say they love them back. It was a twisted, morbid, rancid trail that led him here, to a painful close of the best thing he had ever had in his forsaken life.

The best thing he had ever had in his forsaken life had been foolish and heartwrenchingly naïve to think that he deserved her. He didn't. Not by anyone's galactic stretch of the imagination. And that mistake had cost her her life. The stupidity of it made his heart squeeze, his breath falter, his eyes close. She had died because she had trusted him with more than her life. She had given him her future, her heart.

Her secret.

The princess' deep, dark secret, the secret of her clean heart, the secret of her unblemished soul. The secret that never did come out until the story was over, the last page flipped and forgotten in a pile of such romantic idiocy. Until after the happily ever after.

Han had never believed in happily ever afters, he had never been told the true meaning of the phrase. For a struggling pickpocket on the streets, happily ever after could just as well mean a full meal as marriage and contentment, and Han, as the product of human cruelty in the worst case, never understood that concept. And through the years, it had never really occurred to him to philosophize over it. It was an abstraction, useless to everyday endeavors and life in general. What did happily ever after have to do with smuggling, income, ship maintenance?

And he still hadn't fully comprehended the meaning of it as he raced full-faced into it. He was loved by a princess, had become a general. Was, without realizing it, becoming the modern ideal of the happily ever after. Without a cognizant understanding of what was happening, fate, the Force, the gods, whatever had picked him up by the dirty neckline of his spacer's shirt and thrown him, _hard_, towards that elusive, unintelligible paradise, the beautiful love-of-his-life in his arms.

But, somewhere along the line, he screwed up.

Because happily ever after most certainly wasn't sitting in a hard, cold, metallically-incriminating chair in the back of a sickeningly sterile room as semi-friends, acquaintances, even enemies stood to pelt the audience with _another_ virtue of the princess. Instinctually, intuitively, without the proper childhood bedtime tellings of the fairy tale, Han _knew_ that this sure as hell was not happily ever after. It couldn't be.

Maybe this was _his _happily ever after, separate from Leia's.

_That _made much more sense. She most certainly deserved something better than he did. She'd spent her life working towards the destruction of a tyrannical political dictator, had accomplished it, had fallen in love and then been quickly killed in a wave of laser and superheat. Other than the rather tragic lack of length to her fairy tale, it seemed a somewhat happily ever after to Han. Her story didn't end in tears, screams, regret, emptiness. It just ended.

Maybe this _was_ his happily ever after, an existence dedicated to the knowledge that his best was behind him, that his true happiness had been taken violently and irreversibly away from him. That he'd waited too long, that he'd been afraid of the future he should have embraced with both shaking arms. And even as he sat here in this heartless hell of a reminder, he could only think of one thing that could possibly make him feel any better, make him feel as if his continued torture would amount to anything.

Han would make sure that the man who had forcibly given Leia her happily ever after would meet his own.

* * *

That man had been difficult to track down.

Six weeks of almost madman obsession had given Han little to work with. He'd searched through endless rows of records and files, worked the trail over and over again, kept to his work with a devotion that seemed unhealthy, inhuman.

Han knew precisely the incongruity of his actions. He watched the empathetic stares he received, witnessed the small expressions of surprise that were given him when he left the _Falcon._ They assumed he would fall apart in front of their eyes, perhaps even hoped for it. They imagined a haggard Solo – one bereft of purpose, of life, or inclination to do or say anything to anyone.

They were wrong.

He awoke in the morning, each morning, every morning to the senseless unreal reality that consumed his existence now. But he forced himself to get up, to take a fresher, to shave, to eat. It wasn't some form of self-concern; Solo didn't really give a damn what happened to him with the exception that he live long enough to kill his princess's murderer.

It was punishment.

Punishment for a man that could not even protect the woman he loved.

The injustice of it all had led Han to this sector of the Mid-Rim, on this date, at this time. He had spent his last forever for this moment, the closure to his own grief, to his own failure. He had come here, had awaited the capture of that murderer, waiting for the galaxy to give him some sort of justice for the brutal horror of what it had dealt him. Solo had watched the ship descend from hyperspace, get caught in the tractor beam. Had searched the ship out. Had found his prey.

He now stood, blaster pressed to the murderer's temple, completely ready to pull the trigger and make his own grief felt.

But he needed some answers first.

"What did it pay?"

The man cowered back, on his knees with hands behind his head and a rough bruise forming under his left eye where Han's fist had already connected of its own volition. Up close and in reality, separate from the nightmares that attacked him night after night, the man looked small, timid, afraid. Cowardly.

"What do you mean?"

Han laughed darkly. The noise sounded cruel and deep, even to Han's ears. "How many princesses you killed lately?"

The murderer paled as he finally looked up and recognized the face of his capturer. "Solo – "

"How much did you get for it?" When the man simpered further towards the floor, Han bent down and grabbed a fistful of stringy hair. The man slumped and screeched, fought to free himself from Han's grip. "A few thousand? Huh? A million?" Solo continued to shake him by his hair as the man closed his eyes and sobbed at the back of his throat. "How much did it take for you to kill her?"

"It was just a job!"

"A job? A _job_?" Solo lifted him up and threw him up against the bulkhead, making a cold metallic ring sound through the corridor. "You know how much your job cost?" He punched the man in the jaw. "You know _who _she was?" A punch towards the stomach, resounding in a sharp moan. "You have any _idea _who it was you killed?" Punch to the stomach again. "Do you know how long it took for her to die?" _I should – I should kill him. I should – _"How long she suffered? How long she just – " Han didn't complete the sentence, elbowed the man in the nose, sending his head whiplashing back. "Bastard. Did'ja laugh at the holonews? Gloat to your lowlife – friends?" He took the man's head and beat in back against the bulkhead again. "So how much did it cost? Cause it still cost me a hell of a lot more." He lifted his blaster once more against the man's head and switched the setting visibly to 'kill'.

Punishment. It was all punishment. All of it. For all of them. For her.

For her.

Han stopped.

For _her._

The pacifist. The gentle woman in the white caftan shift, sitting on the bed with the ivory covers, brushing her hair. For the woman who'd teased him that night, the one that spoke for the multitudes so loudly, but so quiet for herself. The one with the remorseful eyes, the one with the lost innocence, the one with the dreams of her destroyed homeworld.

The child that grew up too quickly because of violence she hadn't earned.

Han's blaster arm was shaking, his eyes were stinging. It would be so easy. _One shot. That's all it'd take. _He could end it, end all of it. This man deserved it for what he'd done. _What he's taken. From me._

_From _me.

He lowered the blaster. He could see her, just out of his line of sight, a blur of white and brown, out of reach, so far away. _She wouldn't want this. _He sighed and swiped a hand across his eyes. _This isn't about her anymore. It's about me._

_She'd hate me for doing this. _

Han reholstered the blaster as he looked pointedly at the bloodied and beaten man cringing on the ground. "You better thank her. She just saved your life."

And, after securing a Republic homing beacon onto the outside of the man's ship, Han threw himself down in his pilot's chair, breathed a sigh at the quiet of the _Falcon_ as the man's ship leapt into hyperspace.

_That was for you, sweetheart. That was for everything I never did for you. _He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the chair and watched the stars glisten and gleam in the vacuum of space. It was a long, dark road ahead, he knew. One he wasn't sure he could handle.But he would. He would try to live in her memory, live how he knew he should. He couldn't go back – he'd changed too dramatically for that – and he couldn't continue the way he had been. He wasn't sure what he would do, where he would go. Coruscant or Corellia – it didn't really matter.

_It does matter. _

It would matter to her. And it was all for her. It was all for her now.

_I love you sweetheart. _He refocused his gaze outside the cockpit. _I always will. You knew that. You know it now. _

_I know you know._

* * *

KR 


End file.
